Almost Comatose
by healed
Summary: "You're not prepared. You're really, really not." Horrible, angsty season 3 drabble. Piper's perspective.
1. Almost Comatose

_Angsty season 3 drabbles because I needed to over-analyse my poor suffering ship._

….

There are certain things you expect.

You expect thickened _anger_ edged with _dismay_. You expect _bitterness_ and _frustration_.

You expect _never_ to be forgiven. Instead, you expect - _anticipate_ \- to end up subject to a dark, _twisted_ retribution that snaps at your bones and scratches at your heart, as Alex unravels you, piece by delicate piece, until you're left ruined and broken and _finally_ even.

That is of course, _if_ she's figured it out.

But nothing really prepares you for the blank, almost _comatose_ expression that wears into her features, and it doesn't seem to reflect her _at all_. And Christ, she looks _hurt_ and a more than a little _crushed_ and it absolutely _kills_ you to see her like that.

In a way, you figure you should have been prepared. All the times you went over this, stressed yourself over how Alex would _look_ and what Alex would _say._ Some kind of mental preparation should have been established that barricaded or blocked surprise. Luschek mentioned it. Nicky mentioned it. You _knew_ this was coming. But somehow, you're just as unprepared as the day you stumbled to the phone, blood choked with pure, stifling _fear_ for Alex, and you _had_ to do it. You _had_ to get her back.

You really don't know how you'd survive without her. Which always seems to snag at an inward contradiction, because you went _years_ without Alex. You went years without hearing her voice as the very first sound that hit you in the mornings. You went years without her fingertips closing around your jumper. But you never really stopped _thinking_. You never broke out of your old habits ( _and secretly, maybe you never wanted to_ ). There were still times your heart jumped when your phone buzzed with a message. Despite the fact it's a _completely different ringtone_ and a _completely different phone_ and your number has changed _three times over_. You clung to hope and refused to let fragments of your heart heal over. And maybe you weren't really surviving at all.

But you're not making that mistake again.

That's not to say you're _not_ making mistakes. But at least they're different ones. At least you're _trying,_ even if it's a scramble and your vision now seems permanently blurred between _right_ and _wrong_ , and the feeling in your gut never clenches at you quite as strong. But it's _something_ and it's _enough_ just to see Alex walk into the cafeteria on this completely insignificant day that now drips with consequence.

You're not prepared.

You're really, _really_ not.

You feel like _everyone_ is looking. And part of you wonders if they know. If they know it was _you_ that made this happen, that you are the entire, solitary reason why she's standing in that very spot. _You_ did this.

Your breath coasts over a _hi_ as you wrap your arms around her, and it's so soft she probably can't catch it anyway. But it's buried and forgotten and left without an imprint; because her warmth filters into yours and her chin tucks against your shoulder, and you slowly open up to how _real_ she is.

It's _then_ that the practised part comes in. The material you forced yourself to learn and learn again. But as you dig for the words you repeated, they come up all at once, and it's messy and rather flat, and as you plough through the string of memorised words, you just hope Alex doesn't pick up on how rehearsed it sounds.

But then you stop, because you see Alex's face clearly for the first time, and something in your throat collapses. And you trip right into the _real_.

She closes her eyes over and shakes her head as she tells you _lockup,_ and all your mind can process is how much that bruise has to ache and throb right against her skull. Guilt bubbles up, too, because you're responsible, really. You push it back, try not to stare.

It's an incredibly stupid thought that slinks into your brain, wondering if there's any ice in the freezer of Alex's apartment. You shut that down, too. And you feel stupid and defeated and wishing you could go back to that apartment. See Alex's fresh face absent of _pain_ and absent of _age_ and absent of _everything_ that went wrong.

Because surely they could find their wrong turn and change the course of their _completely fucked up relationship._

You remember telling yourself to ask the _what did you do_ question early, so you don't raise curiosity to why you haven't asked why she's landed _back in prison_. So you formulate the words and push them off your resisting tongue, and _so much_ of you is wishing you didn't have to do this.

The way Alex's voice cracks and falters brings back too many memories – of horrible words and tortuous arguments and tearing each other apart and _leaving_ – and you wonder if Alex remembers. You're so consumed listening to her sound torn and disoriented as she slips into a barely-there whisper that you only just catch on to the fact she's starting to blame _herself._

 _That_ was the one thing never accounted for in all your weeks of theorising. Because, why should that cross your mind? You never knew what went on when Alex disappeared behind doors and through bars and into the unreachable corners of her mind. She never let you access that. It didn't ever stop you wondering – and you did that a lot. Perhaps it was self-preservation, or maybe you were just bruised, but you always thought Alex blamed you. Silently. You thought _that_ was what lingered in the back of her mind, as she processed your every word you later wished you could take back.

Maybe you were wrong about that. Maybe you were wrong about a lot of things.

You adjust your tactic – you're good at that. You can play along to this. And as each moment passes that she doesn't immediately meet your eye and just _know_ it was you is a moment you're silently grateful for.

 _But._

The words _how am I back here_ slip through Alex's suffering lips and you _almost_ crack. You feel torn and frayed in two different directions - and Alex's face is searching yours for the answer, and something in you breaks at how desperately terrified she is. She's coming to _you_ for the answer. And what's worse, _you have it_.

But you can't tell her that, because it would crush whatever is left of her. And you don't have it in you to do that.

You don't like lying. It's a dreadful thing. Part of you wishes you didn't have to. Save yourself from the knotted guilt that tugs and tugs and _tugs_ and never really lets go. But this is about saving Alex of pain, not you. Because she's already in so much.

So you shut the question down and call it yours.

And you hope she doesn't find out for a while. Because damage control takes time, and you need to coax Alex back to herself, catch her before she falls. Because she's so vulnerable standing in front of you, eyes unfocused and voice shattered into a million fractured emotions that she's struggling to keep track of.

You feel like you could crumble at any minute as you press your fingers into the small of her back and guide her out the cafeteria.

All you do is hold your breath and _hope._

….

 _I tried super hard to stay away from writing angsty s3 stuff, and it's probably tipping the scales of feeling out of character. But I promise to stay away from turning this into even more of a train wreck._


	2. Visibly Broken

_I lied. I'm giving this another chapter. From Alex's point of view, this time around._

….

Despite how much you want to, you are incapable of shaking yourself out of this. You wish it would ease, _wear off_ , just fucking _leave you alone_. But it doesn't. You feel misplaced and awkward on your feet; horribly off-track.

Perhaps part of that is to be expected. You _did_ just land yourself back in prison. It's still a shock. A familiar shock – one you expect and greet with a wrangled, fickle nostalgia for the place, the people, and even the sound of boots knocking against metal bedframes. But you can't seem to adapt or adjust, and no matter what position you shift yourself into – you _can't get used to anything._

It's strange, because honestly, before Chicago - before Piper took her fist to a meth head that really _wasn't worth it_ \- when just for a fragile movement in time, things were almost _good_ – you regarded this place as your home.

One with absolutely _no_ privacy and _fucked_ conditions and _horrible_ people you were forced to stay in the same vicinity with. But at least there was no Cartel. No one to disappoint. No real opportunity for you to make it worse.

Or maybe it was because of Piper.

 _Piper always felt a lot like home._

You follow her blindly, your hand secretly linked to hers as she gently pulls you through the halls that feel colder than they used to. Maybe it's because Piper is leading you differently now. She's not leading you out of desire, or lust, or even blossoming frustration. You always used to get this hot, wonderful fire ignite deep in your gut when she started dragging you to the Chapel. But that's gone, because she's leading you now because you're visibly _broken_ , and your feet barely feel like they will support you.

When Piper shuts the door to the Chapel behind you, you loose your unsteady grip on your resolve, slowly unravelling. You wish this hadn't started now – because you'd much rather do your crying and delving your knuckles into hard surfaces in the hope you can process _something_ – alone. But the prison is full of people, and you're silently glad it's _her._

It doesn't change the fact that you are filled with an odd sense of shame when your hands tremble and your eyes unmistakably oversaturate. You've _never_ broken down in front of Piper. You always managed to slip away _just in time_ , so she wouldn't have to see what a mess you really were. How much you fell apart when you'd _finally_ been pushed too far.

 _It's too visible._

You have to lean against the wall – sink in it really, and your already uneven breath speeds up tenfold. It's all threatening to spill lose, and it's with more than just a punctured ego that you realise you don't have the energy or determination to hold it back. You really can't.

Everything in you seems to slip like tangible liquid out of your hands, and every piece of matter you're made of seems to trickle down onto the scuffed floor of the chapel. Or maybe that's just the steady stream of tears that sting against your bruised cheek.

The words _I can't cope with this_ bleed out from your mouth, sounding muffled and fractured.

Piper comes up behind you, arms tightly pressed against your ribcage, and you wonder if she did that on purpose – to make you slow your breathing. It fills you to the brim with an odd sense of nostalgia that pushes everything else from you mind – you used to do that to _her._

Your arms would twist around her, anchoring you close, so she couldn't break away. You were always her point of safety. Even when you had to protect her from herself, and that dreadful, _ferocious_ temper.

But now it's _you_ that needs protecting.

You try to stamp down your breathing – not wanting Piper to hear the way your body tremors. But it quickly falls out of your control, and she clutches at you a little tighter.

"It's okay." Piper breathes into your shirt. "It's okay."

It's _so far from the truth_.

You're in prison. You're _back_ in prison. Because apparently, just once wasn't enough to learn your lesson. You have built nothing that hasn't been torn down. You'll be dead soon, and you haven't even scratched the earth in significance.

But you feel Piper's breath against your shirt, and you feel her warmth, and her arms that are tighter than they used to be – strengthened with worry and hopelessness and _desperation_.

And something makes you believe her.

Just for a second. Because your brain kicks in to stamp down your moment of peace, reminding you of how _fucked_ everything is, how fucked _you_ are, and you cry a little harder.

Piper stays quiet, apart from the occasional whisper that filters though. You just focus on how she feels pressed up against you, because it's been _so long_ since the last time. You try to think back to when that was.

Definitely before Chicago. You hardly got to touch her there. So it must've been here – back at Litchfield – before she _didn't_ choose you, and you _didn't_ let her come back. The more you think about it, the more it was probably here. _Right here._ Hardly a few fractured metres from this very spot.

You think back to the strength you had. You wonder where it went.

Now, you can barely stand without her help. You are _weak_ and _hopeless_ and _a lost cause_.

You can't be saved.

Piper finds your hand, clasping it in her own as she turns you around and leads you towards the altar. She doesn't say a word. And something about that strikes you as strange – Piper always peppered you with questions. Even when she knew you were suffering. She would tread carefully – make it soft around the edges. But she would _always_ ask.

You wonder if you should be more concerned about that. Because there's something distinctly _off_ about her silence. But you dismiss it a second later, because honestly, it belongs at the bottom of the pile of things that are fucked.

Piper sits down first, gesturing to the space beside her. You follow, and it's a relief not to rely on your shaky legs anymore. Because they always feel a second out from failing you. They've felt like that since your parole officer wedged himself through your door, and the hopes you secretly held on to died behind your eyes.

Suddenly, you feel ridiculously unsure of yourself. You don't know where to place your hands; if you can look at her. If you have the right to _anything_ with her, after that shit you pulled in Chicago.

 _Although in your defence, you really didn't know._

You are pulled out of your hazy thoughts when Piper presses her palm to your cheek, and you turn to see her eyes clinging not to lose track of your own, illuminated they way they always are when she's scared.

But scared for _what,_ you don't know.

It flickers somewhere dark that it might be _you_ she's scared of. That you've landed yourself back in here because you did something terrible – _killed_ someone, maybe. But if you pulled something like that, surely you would end up in max. But your thoughts diminish, logic leading you to the blackened edge of uncertainty.

"Alex…"

Piper pulls you closer, and you follow blindly without a second thought. You let her reset the parameters; tell you where you stand. You both start afresh, because keeping count of how many times you've fucked each other over feels so goddamn futile.

There is just a moment of realisation you are allowed before Piper kisses you, lips patient and warm against your own, with just the right amount of cautiousness that transfixes you enough to diminish the thought of pulling away. _Not that you want to._

For the first time in the long, drawn out weeks since the gun incident, you're glad it wasn't Kubra's assassins that came through the door. Because at least you get _this_ again. At least you get to have it – _her_ – just for a little while, before reality catches up to you, and you end up dead somewhere. You already panic as you go around corners.

You wonder how much time you have left with her. _You make a note to make it count._

She pulls away before you do, a small smile hiding in the corner of her mouth. It makes you think about all the times she's done that. In clubs and hotel pools, art galleries and national landmarks. No matter where you went, that smile was your grounding. Your chest aches, and you just hope there weren't too many occasions when you missed out on that smile.

Piper takes your hand, squeezing lightly. You try to stay focused. "Tell me what happened."

And you do. She already knew about the gun, so perhaps it's not unexpected when she doesn't react to the story. But you think back to that visitation, the way she'd leapt forward, voice scaling several inches higher, not quite reprimanding and not quite insistent.

Just pure surprise at you – probably for going and doing something so _stupid_.

But when you tell her you almost _used_ it on someone, you don't get nearly the same response. She just pulls you down into her lap, threads her fingers through you hair…and doesn't offer up even a single piece of commentary.

It _doesn't fit._ You start to search for an answer, start watching her closely, looking for a broken circuit you might have overlooked, but you come up empty. _Piper_ and _moral guilt_ went hand in hand. Even when it wasn't her own.

Something's missing, and you know it. You just can't pinpoint what it is yet.

Facts gets tangled up with an onslaught of personal blame – because really, how _stupid_ are you to land back in here. It's literally _impossible_ for you to screw up more royally than what you have now.

Piper just shakes her head, catching tears that escape with her thumb, and you try to let as little fall as possible.

 _(You're not all that successful)._

Piper knows you well enough to know you are not looking to be corrected. Your attacking and taunting and goddamn torturing of yourself isn't done out of self-pity, it's done because you _need_ to punish yourself more.

You need that.

When Piper finally speaks up, she stays well clear of the whole _breaking your probation_ thing. She asks things of comparably no significance. About the apartment in Queens. If you were sleeping. If you were getting yourself out of bed each day. If you had a high enough fruit and vegetable intake.

You're still not over how _off_ it feels – her uncharacteristic it is of her, but it _does_ do a wonderful job of taking your mind off things. Maybe that was her intention.

 _It helps._

You take a breath, pause for a moment, take in Piper's fingers murmuring through your hair and across your cheek. In all the years you were together, you hardly ever had this. It was always _you_ comforting Piper.

You remember that it's mother's day. Not that it means a lot to you _(not anymore, at least),_ but Piper still has a reason to acknowledge it – coming in the form of a stone-faced mother Piper never failed to wail about for hours following the mothers days you were around for. You ask if she's coming today, absently fiddling with the edge of her sleeve.

She makes you laugh – just barely, but no small victory. You honestly can't remember the last time you laughed.

You think of Diane. You must be such a _disappointment_ to her. She wouldn't judge you for prison. But she would be disappointed to see you _back_. She never held expectations for you. You were free to make yourself something (or not). That was your choice. But she was still your mother, and she wanted the best for you, and even now - all these painful years later, all the things you regret…you can _still_ picture a wrangled smile on her face. Eyes painted with nothing but fresh, pure worry for you.

She'd probably smack some sense into you, too.

You tell Piper that. Because Piper is the only person in this world you can share this with.

"She's probably looking down right now, just… _vomiting angel dust."_ You try to stop, but words keep coming, fuelled with a desire to be spoken that you are not capable of halting. "I feel so _stupid_."

Piper stays passive, countering it with a remark about Queens making prison _much more attractive_. You keep ploughing through – you need to – and she knows that. So she runs her hand through your hair and lets you combust until you start with the _fuck-ups_ , and then she steps in.

Piper leans off you, your name spilling watchfully through her lips, and you know that look of concern all too well. She wants you to stop, because it's starting to get to her – starting to hurt.

The words _I had a chance to make a life_ slip past before you even think to hold them back. Your voice splinters, all too _coarse_ and _thick_ and _wet_.

You wonder if Piper understands just _how much_ you wanted things to work. Just how much getting out meant _staying out_. It meant no more drugs, no more business. It meant actual _living._ And on nights where your mind ended up playing out scenarios of what comes after Queens, you included Piper in that life too. Sometimes in Cambodia. Sometimes not. All you really wanted was to do something that would make your mom proud. Even if that was washing dishes or something equally humiliating. And even if you couldn't do that, even if nothing else went to plan, _you wanted Piper._

Because you just couldn't envision a future without her. Your mind just went _black,_ and there was nothing to fill in the corners. You just stayed stationary, stuck.

But with Piper, your future moves forward.

Just thinking of that now makes you choke harder on a fresh circulation of tears, hot as they run down your cheeks.

She tells you _you need to shut up_ right before she puts your mouth on hers, and she's soft but firm to make sure you are incapable of replying. But she cuts off your air supply too, something you desperately needs to compensate for the sobs that break out of you. You end up whimpering right against her mouth.

She pulls away from you, muttering something about _not hot when your snot drips in my mouth like that_. You're so thankful she isn't instantly disgusted, which she _would_ be entitled to be (it's not exactly the prettiest kiss you've ever given her). You play along; tell her you _thought she'd be into it._

You're teasing, really. Because she's got so many kinks (and a few you're sure even _you_ don't know about yet). And you've obliged _every. single. one._

"No, I don't like that." She strokes your cheek, wiping away remnants of tears. For the nanosecond where your mind goes blank and _stays_ blank, you wish it could stay like this. But your mind is your own worst enemy, and you can't shut it out when it all comes tumbling back it. It's unstoppable.

There's _too much pain_ for everything to stay perfect.

Piper looks anxious when you start up again, and even more so when you sit up instantly, fuelled by the odd determination to distance yourself from her. She's quick to try and comfort you again, the familiar phrase _No, Alex…_ spilling from her mouth.

Words relentlessly thrust forward; sounding more desperate by the second as she tries to trick you into believing that _you have to stop,_ and _it wasn't your fault._

But it _is_ your fault and you _can't_ stop, so you just shake your head and refute. You hold that guilt tight to your heart, and you won't give up on it. You tell her no one put that gun in your hand. Because _no-one did._ You really shouldn't have picked it up, hell; you shouldn't have _bought_ it to begin with.

But you were stupid and you were scared _,_ because you _knew_ what was coming.

"But you didn't know!" Piper insists. She believes that, and that's the worse part. That you're miraculously cleared of guilt, that this was all just _circumstance_ , that this is just the way the cards fall.

And the more you protest, the more Piper insists. She grows more desperate by the second, frantically trying to get you to listen. She grabs at your forearm, and strains her voice, dancing on the razor's edge of hopelessness. You feel her fingertips brush your hair back, and you listen to her attempts at _it wasn't you_.

 _She's more persistent than you anticipated._

She runs out of words – comfortable, soothing words that you have come to depend on the steady, never-ending stream of. She tilts your chin back towards her, and she struggles to swallow. You know she's clawing at words, fighting to find the _right_ thing to say.

 _It was the system_. You notice the way she narrows her eyes, the tell-tale sign she's trying to gage if she has persuaded you into believing. _You got caught in the system._ But she's always _really_ desperate when she resorts to that.

"I'm just a fly, in the web of the prison industrial complex? _Christ."_

"But at least we're in the same web, right? I mean, at least we're in it together."

 _Yes,_ you think. _That's true._ You don't know how you would have survived being dumped in another prison. Lockup was hard enough. And even though it's incredibly likely you'll be killed before your long, protracted sentence ever ends; Piper is your last comfort, really.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

So you nod, agree, and she nods back. You wonder if you could tell her your _whole_ mental dialogue. The one that ends with you _dead._

You're both pulled out of your convex little universe that barely extends beyond the physical space between you, and you know instantly you've been caught out. You both jump a little, still not acclimatised to it.

You don't want to go back out there, so you don't make any move to get up. But this is _prison_ – you don't have the choice, you don't have the freedom. So you drag yourself up behind Piper, and you hide your face as you walk past Donaldson, bringing your hand up to remove evidence that you've been crying. But this place isn't blind – _even though it's full of idiots_ – and people are going to know if they so much as cast their glance in your direction.

You keep your head down all the way to back to your temporary bunk, sliding your glasses back on and pushing your hair messily forward as you stand for count. When the humiliation is over, you crawl onto your mattress, burying your face in your elbow as you shield yourself from the world.

….

 _Thanks to DarkestGayMoon, Vausemaniac, Guest, nickyjg and moanzs._


End file.
